Unnatural Causes
by Little Tanuki
Summary: "Firewall" AU: A new epidemic has struck one of the Federation's colonies, and a small team of researchers is sent to investigate.
1. Chapter 1

"**There are always games, Doctor.****"**** Elim Garak, **_**Cardassians**_**.**

* * *

**A/N: The following story corresponds roughly with the sixth season story In the Pale Moonlight, and directly follows the AU events of Helix.**

**I do not own Star Trek. Deep Space Nine belongs to the Bajorans, and all original characters in here belong to themselves. I got some action figures, a communicator that can't talk to people in space and a plastic phaser that can't shoot anybody (pity) but I'm just playing in this world. No harm intended.**

* * *

**TOXIC:**

_**Toxikos **_**(Greek) - A type of poisoned bow and arrow.**

_**Toxicum **_**(Latin) - Poison.**

"**Containing or being poisonous material especially when capable of causing death or serious debilitation. [****…****] Extremely harsh, malicious, or harmful.****"**

**(**_**Merriam Webster Online Dictionary**_**.)**

* * *

_Personal log. Stardate 51725.3._

_What comes before will seek us out, and always find us in the end._

_I wonder why that is, exactly. I have some idea – a very general idea. But I wonder what, exactly, made me think about those words. It's an old saying from Cardassia, I think. From the earliest days of imperial expansion. And I find myself trying to picture what sort of Cardassian might have been the first to say it._

_How fitting._

_I need somebody with me now, like Jadzia or Miles. Somebody to tell me that I'm being a fool. It's what they would say, I think. They would say that it's arrogant of me to believe this is my fault – that everything would have happened precisely this way, in spite of anything I said or did. I need them to remind me that I'm not so important. They're very good at that, much better at it than I have ever been. Of course, I could convince _myself_ that no choice of mine made any difference to how it all turned out._

_Still, I need to know._

* * *

It started with rain.

Not the pounding, tumultuous rain that occasionally came down from the surrounding mountains. Not the drifting, misty rain that floated like specks of dust until it finally settled on the outer surface of people's clothes. Rain was rare on Exeter Five, and rarely lasted more than an hour. But this time, it quickly coated every house, every field, and every pavement with water.

This was unexpected. Somehow, the more observant of Exeter's people noticed, it had lacked the slick, wet feeling of an all-day downpour. The first to feel it on their skin had assumed that it would never increase beyond a trickle. The air would be dry again before too long.

It did not depart as quickly as they had hoped. Trees were turned to props for channeling the flow of moisture. Exposed patches of ground soon changed to sodden troughs of mud.

"Brilliant," exclaimed Tomasz Van Wijk, glancing irritably through the window. "Looks like the weather grid's on the blink again."

He looked around at either side, as though a wider view would prove him wrong. "Guess that means they'll expect me to fix it."

"Serves you right for being so good at your job," his wife teased. Turning around, he hit her playfully with the flat side of his padd.

"Bully," she accused.

But the Van Wijk children's father had grown oddly pensive again. "It's strange, mind you," he muttered. "We finished a diagnostic only two days ago."

"Can I come?" asked Hazel. But she managed no more than a croaking whisper – followed by a sharp, dry cough.

"No," insisted Mama. "You stay here, and get better."

Hazel's older sister glanced up at the scene with only the briefest interest, and then back down at the book on her knees.

"Just a quick trip this time," Papa called, donning his coat as he stepped towards the front door of their house. "I'll be back before you know it. And Gerte. Don't forget you've got homework to do."

The older sister muttered something incomprehensible and curled up more tightly with her book raised even closer to her face. Shoulders hunched, she turned slightly away from her father.

* * *

He returned three hours later, to the woeful protests of his firstborn child. "But I'm trying as hard as I _can_!"

Gerte dropped her head melodramatically onto her arms. Smiling quietly to himself, her father removed his coat from over his shoulders, and rubbed the moisture from his dripping hair.

"It isn't fair." Gerte was persistent in her suffering. "Hazel doesn't have to study algebra."

"Hazel's time will come," Mama reminded her. "And she's sick. You're not."

At this, the teenager released a wail of impotent frustration. "Papa – tell her!"

With some effort, Papa held back an urge to chuckle softly. But he could not stop himself from smiling. "I have faith in you, Miss Gerte. You'll get there eventually."

Gerte cast a forlorn glance at her abandoned novel, and returned to her homework with a cry of frustration. Mrs Van Wijk smiled at her husband. "All done?" she asked.

"Just about," said Papa as he rubbed away some drops of rain that had soaked into his hair. But Gerte scowled at both of them, and muttered soft fragmented curses against parents who never listened to teenage girls.

Hazel had continued to watch the rain, dwarfed by the thick blue blanket still tight as a web around her shoulders. Shards of cool, white daylight reflected in a blade from every falling drop. It was sparser now, more a trickle than it was a downpour, but it continued to tumble from the awnings above.

The younger of the Van Wijk daughters had seen very little of rain. She had been only a baby - less than a year old - when the family had moved to Exeter Five, and remembered nothing of life outside of the remote and arid colony. On a normal day, only detailed surveying by earlier colonists and a network of artificial weather control facilities could lend enough moisture to the air to make their small coastal settlements inhabitable. A day of bad weather was a rare, almost anomalous, occurrence.

"There _was _a power flow irregularity in our first and second level humidity regulators," Papa announced. "We're hoping the computer might diagnose and repair all of that by this time tomorrow - and once it does, we ought to be able to run a thorough diagnostic on all the other systems - but like I said to Jo and the others, now it's a matter of letting the computers do their job."

He positioned himself next to Hazel on the sofa, chuckling softly. "I know, I know. You're not interested in technical details. I have to go back there early tomorrow morning - but the point is, this should all peter out before too long."

"Well that's good to know," said Mama.

Papa smiled in response. "In the meantime-" he added, turning to Hazel. "How's my little invalid?"

"Okay." The youngest daughter sniffed, rubbed her swollen nose, and wrapped herself a little tighter in her blanket. But then her attention moved down to where her father had begun to scratch unconsciously at the back of his own right hand.

"Is that giving you trouble?" Mama had seated herself on Hazel's other side. One hand stroked the girl's smooth hair. But her intensely anxious eyes were fixed upon her husband. Even Gerte had abandoned her homework in order to watch the scene.

"Not really." Papa chuckled - but frowned briefly as he flexed his hand. "I'll clear up soon enough. And if it doesn't, well… It's only rain."

"That's not what I meant, Tomasz Van Wijk." Mama stood and skirted around the sofa. Reaching down, she lifted Papa's hand. "Let me see."

The skin around his knuckles was blotchy and inflamed, with weeping blisters rising across its surface. "Oh," he said, glancing down at the irregular reddened marks. "That. It's just a bit itchy, that's all. I'll get it checked out tomorrow, before I head off to work."

"Good." Mama's voice was firm, and the girls knew from experience that she considered the matter decided. She would hold him to that promise. She paused for one last glance at the rash on Papa's hand. "I'll see if we have some ointment somewhere. But stop _scratching_ it, Tom. You'll only make it worse."

* * *

It was dark outside when Hazel woke, but with a clear sky and a silver-blue moon sending a sharp but subdued glow through one transparent window. Hazel pictured spirits in the light beam, or tiny benevolent entities that would keep watch over her family as they slept. Just as Mama and Papa used to watch her when she was much smaller. The spirits landed on the soft toy bunny lying next to her upon the bed – accentuating every fold of his rumpled neck. And Hazel brought him close to her as he curled up tightly and whimpered into the corner of her blanket.

Her nose felt stuffy. Her head throbbed, and an uncomfortable pressure was building just behind her ears. She was hot and cold all at once, with a pain in her throat that would not leave. She sniffed once, and moaned. _Mama can make it better_, she thought. Mama would fix her something hot and sweet, and the bad feelings would retreat to a memory. Not forever, but long enough for her to sleep again.

She slid quietly onto her feet, and kept both arms wrapped tightly around the torso of Bunny Ben. The toy flopped obligingly as he yielded to her skinny-armed strangled hold. Hazel clung to him, even while she donned a robe and pressed the button to open her bedroom door. She and Bunny Ben shuffled into the hallway, past the door to Gerte's room, and finally stopped at a place halfway along – with only one door separating them both from Hazel and Gerte's parents.

Holding her soft toy rabbit a little more tightly around his belly, Hazel reache dup and pressed the chime on her parents' door.

"Mama?" she whispered. There had been no answer to the soft mechanical summons, and none to her plaintive call.

She stepped back again and stared at the door. They wouldn't be angry at her for waking them, would they? Papa had grumbled a lot before both daughters had been sent off to bed. But all that Hazel wanted was a warm drink and a cuddle. She would be back beneath the covers and sound asleep as soon as she had gotten what she was after. Mama would send away all of the aches and the stuffiness in her nose. That shouldn't be enough to make them angry.

Then why would no-one answer?

Sniffling quietly, Hazel considered using her parents' special code to open the door from outside. The one that their children were not supposed to know. But Gerte had secretly discovered it by spying on her parents with her father's holocam, and she had revealed it to her sister only after an hour of persistent nagging. Even now, Hazel's fingers were slightly reluctant to key in the simple progression of numbers. There were only three of them, but each made a tiny sound that was many times too loud to her ears.

"Mama?" she called in the same tiny voice, as she pushed aside the unlocked door. She maneouvred it the other way, but not quite closed, and tiptoed across the floor.

They were both still lying in bed, and neither responded to their daughter's entrance. Still with an arm hooked around Bunny Ben, Hazel shuffled on three limbs along the narrow space between her mother's body and the edge of the bed. Their backs were turned to her. She did not see any sign that she had woken them, but she reached forward and gently shook her mother by the shoulder.

"Mama? I can't sleep…"

Mama's head turned slowly towards her, and a labored sound passed through her throat, like wind passing through a narrow tunnel. Her eyes opened slightly, only barely seeming to find her daughter's face. A slft clicking sound heralded each breath, which sounded more like the wheeze of a faulty pipe. Her face was as pale as desert sand, spotted as though with flecks of ink. Fluid glinted darkly beneath her eyes and around her half-open, gasping mouth – transformed by moonlight from crimson to dark velvet. Strands of limp golden hair had fallen from her head to land in a heap on her pillow.

Her mouth opened a little more, lips drawing back, and revealed where lines of blood had also gathered between her teeth.

Hazel screamed.

* * *

Victoria Roslyn's standard-issue laboratory shoes made barely a sound as she advanced with purposeful, lengthy strides along the polished corridor. She enjoyed the moment of pleasant isolation. Her shift had officially ended several hours ago. Most of her research teams had left soon afterwards, and the few transparent windows revealed no more than darkness outside. Not even a moon had risen into the sky.

The number of people was kept to a minimum throughout the night shift – just three or four junior staff to continue with basic security and maintenance. But the interior of the central facility gleamed with equal brilliance whatever the time of day.

Approaching a tightly closed door with the simple designation of _Theta 2_, Victoria stood directly in front of a sloping access panel and placed one hand upon it. She blinked repeatedly from the flash of a laser peering deep into her eyes, and noted the single high-pitched chime as the computer granted her entry.

The same door closed again behind her, immediately followed by the soft, airy hiss of sterilising chemicals filling the enclosed compartment. End to end, it was barely larger than she was. The unmarred white of its walls was tingled slightly pink by a single scarlet light in front of her, which after a two second delay, changed efficiently from red to green. The last barrier slid open and a flood of cool white met her eyes from the much wider laboratory at the other side.

The man within did not look up. But the director doubted that he would fail to notice her unannounced arrival. She stood at the edge of the room to watch in momentary silence. And finally, she smiled. "Are you going to be there all night?"

Her colleague offered no visible response, but answered in a tired, distracted semi-whisper. "I haven't decided yet."

He was almost half a decade younger than Professor Roslyn, but older than many of the others on her staff. They were all young at the research centre; even Tirok was quite youthful, for a Vulcan. Aside from Tirok, and possibly Darnell, not one of them had seen their fortieth birthday. But as Victoria's older sister had reminded her often enough, that day would come soon enough. Her own was only slightly over fifteen months away.

But unlike the professor, this man had lines of experience clearly etched upon his face. He focused with intense, deliberate concentration on the screen of his terminal, eyes shifting regularly from the moving display of data to the detailed magnification of soil samples at his right.

The data cycled once, and stopped – accompanied by an unobtrusive alert from the computer. Swinging around in his chair, the man opened a small container at his side. He lifted a hard white tube and placed it in the molecular scanner on his desktop. "Computer, designate Sample Twenty Seven," he said tiredly, kneading the back of one hand. "Begin sequence analysis."

"How's it going?" asked Roslyn.

"Oh. Uh… Fine, so far," the man replied, before pausing to collect his thoughts. "It will take some time to yield us enough data for a viable analysis, but once that happens, the algorithm for predicting this parasite's probable incubation period should be relatively easy to create."

Taking her time, Victoria Roslyn made her way silently to an empty chair at another side of the research table. She said nothing, until the moment when she had settled herself upon it – and folded both hands in front of her. "Was there a reason why this couldn't wait till morning?"

"There's still a lot of work to do before this is complete," the tall young man insisted. "I'm charting the life cycle of over a dozen related species and in just as many different environmental conditions, cross referenced according to species and location. There's a paper in this – I know there is. But I thought the results would be more viable if…"

"They're in _stasis_, Julian."

Julian Bashir looked at her directly for the first time that night. "Even so," he persisted. "Despite what a lot of people think, stasis chambers aren't always a hundred percent foolproof as a method of preservation."

"And what effect do you suppose a lack of sleep is likely to have on your experiment?" Roslyn challenged him – her tone simultaneously playful but serious.

"I wanted to test a theory," said Bashir.

Roslyn's eyebrows rose. "Do I get to find out what that is?" she asked.

"Assuming that it works." Bashir smiled wanly, and turned at the interrupting voice of the computer.

"Analysis complete."

He selected another container, swapped it for the previous sample, and gave the same instructions for Sample Twenty Seven as he had done for its predecessor. As soon as this was done, he returned his attention to the director, and sighed.

"I couldn't sleep," he told her pragmatically.

_Finally_, thought Roslyn. _An honest response_. But she opted not to comment. Turning to his left, Bashir tensed the muscles of his face into a tight squint and ruffled the back of his hair with one hand. He leaned back and gradually worked out the strain that had accumulated in his neck.

"It's that kind of night," he continued. "I suppose I just thought, if I got up and attempted something productive, I could _make_ myself tired…"

His earnest expression now turned to one of mild subversion. "And you, Madam Director? What are _you_ doing up so late?"

Roslyn chuckled quietly, but a softly chiming alert interrupted her response. "Professor Roslyn?" came a voice through the shiny metal pin on her laboratory coat.

"I'm here," she responded, still with the shade of a laugh behind her words.

"Professor," came the disembodied, friendly-but-anxious voice of the junior assistant on duty. "Uh… There's a message just come for you. It's, um… It's from _Starfleet_."

Starfleet? She glanced again at the man in front of her, seeing him look up suddenly to meet her own startled gaze. With the moment of contact, she acknowledged Julian's pensive attention. But the moment was a silent one, and passed without comment.

"I'll take it in my office thanks, Jane," she told the assistant, and retraced her steps towards the place where she had entered.

But before stepping through the door, she turned and pointed a finger at Bashir. "Take a break," she commanded. He answered with a mock salute, but with his attention already fixed upon the console display. Sighing, Victoria Roslyn departed from the room.

* * *

Bashir returned much later to his own small quarters at the farthest end of the research complex. "No – this will be fine," he'd told Professor Roslyn on his first day. It was smaller than most private quarters, a single cubicle with a bed, a desk, and two chairs arranged at right angles from each other, with a replicator embedded in the opposite wall to a small partitioned alcove. In that hidden space were all the necessities he needed for grooming – a sonic shower, tiny sink, and waste extraction unit in the corner.

He relaxed – but only a little – as the door closed behind him. Given the chance, he would rather have gone to a holosuite to unwind. But this facility had no holosuites, and Felix – who designed many of his favourite programmes – had not sent him anything in quite some time.

"Yeah I got something in the works," he had told Bashir last time they had spoken. "Just got a few kinks to work out, but trust me. This one's gonna be worth the wait."

Felix was keeping very quiet about what his new programme was going to be, but Julian could be just as deliberately patient. It would take him a while to be able to access any holosuites.

Three objects sat in a row along a narrow brown shelf, and Bashir soon realised that he'd been looking in exactly that direction. At the nearest end was a vase with spindly dry flowers inside. He had yet to replace them with fresh ones – but they had always been naturally small and sharp. Probably desert plants. In the centre was a bone carving that must have been Cardassian – almost certainly from before the war. Fascinated by its meticulously smooth and delicate edges, he had negotiated its purchase from a passing Ferengi merchant, and assured himself what he hoped was a reasonable deal.

Beside it was the final, most treasured item – a teddy bear with a rumpled face, its surface even more ragged than its owner occasionally felt inside.

He brushed his fingers across the soft toy's patched-together fur. "Hello, old friend."

Sitting down on the bed, he glanced briefly at the three padds he had brought from the lab – without activating any of them. Roslyn was right. The data stored within them could wait until morning.

There were days, when the ache beneath his muscles turned every movement to a difficult struggle. When his body rebelled against him as though from the after effects of a full day's hard toil. On those days, all he could do was to set his jaw with fierce determination, and struggle through every hour until the coming of evening – when he would crash, exhausted, back onto his small, hard bed.

But these black days, as he had come to think of them, no longer defined his waking existence. _And perhaps_… He looked down at his hands, now resting palm-down upon his thighs. They did not move, but neither did they feel entirely steady. Even so, he allowed himself a moment of hope, the very faintest of imagined smiles. Perhaps this would not be a lasting curse after all.

It was a gambler's hope – the desperate optimism that accompanied every minor streak of better fortune. He had seen the same in so many others. Nobody would believe them if he told them that his good health would return. He sighed quietly, reminding himself – as he always did – that all physical evidence was against him.

Reaching forward, he lifted a file of downloaded experimental results. Victoria had sent him to his quarters, he reasoned. She could not dictate what he must do once he was there. As he stared down at the padd's black and yellow monitor, he summoned the stream of data, but wondered what Starfleet could possibly have had to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**RENDEZVOUS:**

_**Rendez vous**_** (Middle French) "Present yourselves"**

"**A place appointed for assembling or meeting, a meeting at an appointed place and time, […] the process of bringing two spacecraft together."**

**First Known Use: 1582**

_**Merriam Webster Online Dictionary**_

* * *

"I received a priority communiqué last night," Professor Roslyn began, and glanced around the room at the faces of her staff. She paused – and Bashir noted the subtle tension in her brows. Whatever the message, it had been unusual enough to make her anxious. He could tell that the director was thinking very carefully about how much information she wanted to reveal.

Finally, she made her choice. "It came from Starfleet Medical. They've asked us to assist them in identifying a new pathogen that has recently appeared on a Federation colony world, and to assess the risk of continued contamination. I told them that we would be happy to provide them with whatever expertise they need from us."

"Why?" Vijay Parackal protested loudly from the audience of gathered research staff, and scratched his head with one agitated hand. His narrow mouth was open in disbelief. "What could they want with us? We're no field scientists."

"Time to learn some new tricks then, isn't it?" The director silenced him with a glance.

Bashir allowed himself a moment of distraction, from where he was standing with arms folded on the fringes of their impromptu gathering. He was surprised at the bitter feelings that had risen from his stomach, when the name of Starfleet Medical had been mentioned. But there was no question in his mind. _People, in trouble_. Our _people_. Of course they had to answer the summons.

"Did they say how we were supposed to _get_ to this colony world?" Another voice interrupted his thoughts. "Unless we take a low-warp shuttle to the nearest starbase, we don't even have a way to leave this facility. The last ship left two days ago."

"Starfleet has promised to send a ship for us," Roslyn answered. "They also intend to assemble their own research contingent to provide us with some assistance."

"Order us around, in other words," muttered Parackal.

"_Vijay_—" the director warned him.

"What? Am I wrong?" Parackal challenged her. Roslyn responded with a dark glare. Her eyes, thickly lined with kohl, were intently focused on the junior scientist, making her appear like an admonishing cat.

"We have been asked to work in co-operation with Starfleet," she continued in a heavy, deliberately meaningful voice. "The most important thing is not who gives the orders. This is about the welfare of Federation colonists."

"All right," Vijay acknowledged. "So we're working with Starfleet. But exactly what could they want from us?"

"Personnel support." Bashir surprised even himself when he heard his own response. But with every face turned towards him, he continued. "They've been suffering from a shortage of resources since the outbreak of war, even more so now that they have to extend themselves still further with every loss. The Romulan alliance has offered us some reprieve, and may prove to be the most important development in this whole Dominion War. But even with the Romulans on our side and with new fronts opening along the border of the Neutral Zone, Starfleet doesn't have enough manpower to send a response team to one lone distress call at the edges of Federation space. A joint mission helps to alleviate their resource problem and gives them a greater range of perspectives as search for a solution."

He caught Roslyn's gaze. "Sorry. You were saying?"

But the professor shook her head. "No, you're right – that about covers it. I've been promised a more detailed briefing after we rendezvous with Starfleet, but they've already dispatched the Starship _Enceladus_ to transport us to the colonies. That gives us two more hours to get ourselves ready. Any questions?"

Nobody spoke.

"Good." Victoria Roslyn nodded once to her team, and took a small shoulder bag from one of the nearby desks. "In that case, let's get started."

With a soft undertone of voices, indistinctly but fretfully mumbling around them, the team moved in a direct line towards the door. But Bashir stepped forward quickly to intercept the director. "I do have one question," he commented. "How many of us are you planning to send on this mission?"

"Not many," Roslyn admitted. "At the moment I'm thinking you, me… and Vijay. We shouldn't need any more than three, but I will need your experience. We ought to be meeting other researchers on the _Enceladus_. That's the other thing – Starfleet thought that a collaborative effort would be a more effective use of resources than it would be to pull on a significant number of personnel from either team."

"That makes sense." Bashir nodded, understanding. But his face shifted into a quizzical half-smile. "Vijay?"

"He's smart enough," Roslyn answered simply. "But he could use some experience in a real-world situation. I'm going to ask Tirok to take charge of this place until we return."

Her large, cat-like eyes watched him steadily as she stood for several moments near the centre of the meeting space. The only visible movement was a slight readjustment of her hands over the back of the padd she still held.

"What is it?" asked Bashir.

Roslyn hesitated a little longer, as though undecided as to how much she ought to say. "You should know," she began with a sigh. "I've been trying to figure out for myself why Starfleet Medical would want us on their mission. After all, Vijay's right. We are civilians here. Except for you, perhaps."

"Does this look like a Starfleet uniform?" Bashir indicated his nondescript grey suit.

"You know what I mean." Roslyn spoke softly. "Doctor Nikos told me some of the things that happened in your past."

"No." Julian interrupted the director, although not entirely sure of exactly what he was denying. Again he found himself staring into her wide green eyes. His mind worked hard to connect what he could almost see of the tenuous, elusive threads of evidence. "Athena found me this research post. I _owe_ her, but she can't tell you everything and neither can Starfleet."

"Can you?"

He stepped away from Victoria Roslyn's unblinking, quietly attentive eyes. Stepped away from the gentle challenge in her question. And clenched both hands as tightly as their tendons would allow. They were shaking. "It's not something I particularly want to remember," he admitted quietly. He had not intended to sound so bitter.

"But you might have to, Julian," Roslyn responded in a measured tone. She kept him in the path of her unwavering gaze. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable – but I think you should prepare yourself. Starfleet… They didn't say anything specific, but they might still have some difficult questions for you."

* * *

The cargo containers were roughly cubical in shape, their rounded corners no less painful than the sharper edge of a table or desk. The surface was smooth, grey-green with reflections blurred by tiny indents in the polymer. The imperfect exterior threatened to slip from Vijay Parackal's sensitive fingers.

He cursed the shallow hand-holds and wondered what kind of engineer would design a container with barely enough room to grasp. Did they think that his fingers were fat and sturdy, with suction caps at the end, or able to balance the cargo's full weight on no more than their tips? It had not seemed heavy, but even stacking the containers properly on the antigrav sled was placing considerable strain upon Vijay's slender back.

With a single mis-judgement, the container might slip and crush his feet, or damage the delicate equipment inside. He wondered which of the two possibilities would matter most to his superiors, and decided that he had no wish to find out.

"What's the deal with Starfleet, then?" He pushed another container forward until it was flush with its immediate neighbor. "Huh? What could they possibly need _us_ for?"

He shifted around towards the handle of the antigravity cart. "I mean, don't they usually send their own people to sort this kind of stuff?"

"They're all busy negotiating the Romulan treaty," said Lucas, a slightly older youth with thick, muscular arms and yellow-brown hair gathered like the threads of a rope into a braid behind his back. He positioned a slightly smaller crate onto the pile, adjusting it so that it was meticulously parallel with the others.

"Yes but…" Parackal shook his head.

"It's a pretty big deal, believe it or not." Her attention on the manifest padd in one hand, their other young companion quickly checked off more items from her inventory on the contents of each container. She took a moment to glance over the label on the container's matte exterior.

"I mean—" she continued. "An alliance with Romulus. That's gotta take some negotiating."

"But it ought to make you think, doesn't it?" insisted Parackal. He looked around him, and lowered his voice, gesturing wildly with his open hands. "At the very least, you gotta be _thinking_ about it. And _what_ about the treaty? One minute the Romulans are sitting back – just letting Starfleet get itself blown up – and you can't say they've been so eager to defend the Neutral Zone from the Dominion before. And the next, they're falling over themselves to play nice with us? There's gotta be more to it than they're telling people over the News Service broadcasts."

"You and your conspiracies," said the young woman. "The Romulans have as much to lose as any of us. More likely it's, they just came to their senses."

Vijay Parackal sighed, shaking his head. "It's weird," he muttered. "That's all I'm saying. Just… weird."

"There's still a war going on," Lucas reminded him.

"Exactly," said the girl. "We need all the allies we can get right now. It's not our job to wonder why. We'd do better to ask ourselves what took them so _long_."

Lucas laughed in his clear, fluid baritone. "I suppose you think some evil admiral forced them into it."

"Makes sense to me," responded Vijay with a shrug. "I'm not in Starfleet. No-one can _order_ me to stop asking questions."

"Well the bottom line is Professor Roslyn wants you to go with her to the colonies," his smaller colleague insisted. "Just be glad you're getting out of these offices for a while. Come on. We gotta get this done before your ship arrives."

* * *

_Does Starfleet feel that we need a battle ship to escort us to the Exeter colonies_? wondered Bashir as he and the others were escorted by a jittery young junior officer towards the rooms that would serve as their quarters for the duration of their journey. The Enceladus was one of a fleet of eight year old starships, built to replace those destroyed at the Battle of Wolf 359. A successive line of arches extended before Roslyn's small away team, structural supports to hold up the corridor, which curved to the left like the ribs and spine of a python.

But it had never officially been a battle ship, Julian reminded himself. Not officially. The _Defiant_ had not been a battle ship either, until the Federation sent her to war.

Even Parackal followed without protest, subdued and silent as the Starfleet officer escorted them away from the transporter room. Professor Roslyn strode purposefully in front of her team, but without overtaking their equally determined young guide. She continued without speaking for over three minutes, but finally quickened her pace to be closer to the young woman.

"How long until we reach our destination?"

"The captain estimates that we should be in orbit over the Exeter Colonies in a little under forty two hours," the ensign responded without slowing the rhythm of her quick, efficient steps. Bashir made no mention that he had already calculated the transit time at closer to forty five, but space travel was uncertain. It made sense to allow for a margin of error.

Their guide rounded a corner and stopped beside a row of doors. "There's a meeting arranged for the senior team members at sixteen hundred hours, to co-ordinate a response plan. Unfortunately the captain was unable to be at the transporter room in time to greet you all properly, but he sends his apologies, and told me to say that he would be at the mission briefing and the formal reception this evening on the forward deck."

Bashir secretly hoped that none of the _Enceladus'_ crew would notice Vijay Parackal's none-too-subtle scowl.

* * *

His first errand took him to a corridor two decks back and circling around the outer edge of Enceladus' saucer section. As he walked along it, glancing at each number on the doors, he twisted a small cylindrical object between his thumb and forefinger – until finally he came to a nondescript brown door, which opened as he entered.

Inside was a room with waist-high desks set curved around its walls. Bashir looked around in silence, at a space where the only other person was a petit Andorian with boyishly short, silver-white hair.

The Andorian girl turned away from her console, and Bashir found himself looking into a pair of nervous steel-grey eyes. With one hand she smoothed the bob of pure white hair on her head. Her unusually thin antennae stood upright even more instantly than she was able to rise to her feet. "Sorry, Sir. I didn't realise you were here."

With her other hand – its fingers long and slender – she halted the stream of data scrolling upwards against the monitor's deep black background. "Are you one of the science team?" she asked. "They told me that I should meet with you in half an hour, but I didn't realise you would come here so soon. I was just preparing…"

"It's all right," Bashir responded. He glanced around at the array of scientific equipment, and finally back towards the watching girl, whose large grey eyes were strangely eager. Her antennae curled back in what he'd come to recognise as a sign of curiosity.

"Cross purposes, that's all," he continued. "I was sent to find one of your colleagues, Penelope Carmichael."

Still watching him earnestly, the young woman positioned her hands behind her back. "That's me."

"You?" Bashir responded instantly. He discovered that his balance had shifted slightly – almost giving way to an urge to step back with surprise. "_You're_ Ensign Carmichael?"

"Penny." She glanced hesitantly at her own right hand before offering it for Bashir to shake. The quietly honest expression did not leave her eyes, even as she broke away once more from this momentary contact. "It's all right – I'm used to it. Most other people don't believe me either."

Julian answered her with a smile of sheepish contrition. "Guilty," he confessed. He chuckled inwardly, remembering his competitive class-mate from medical school – and her surprise when, years later, she realised that she'd mistakenly confused Julian Bashir with his own Andorian friend. He still recalled the laugh of perplexity that had lain beneath her astonished reaction.

_Exactly like Elizabeth_. He had neither seen nor spoken to Doctor Lense in over a year. They had competed furiously for the top position at medical school, but without ever having really met – not for another three years, until the time when her ship was docked at Deep Space Nine. Both their grades had been stubbornly equal, and then had come the final exam. The moment when he had a vital decision to make. Did he really want to be the first?

He wondered if she resented him for the secret he'd kept. Almost every doctor in Starfleet must have heard what had happened by now. He knew that many high-ranking officers had even objected to allowing him the position on Roslyn's team.

He drew his attention away from these thoughts and back to the wide grey eyes of Ensign Carmichael. "How old are you?" he found himself asking.

"Twenty three, Sir."

"You don't have to call me 'Sir'," Bashir assured her. "I hear that you've been involved in some rather interesting biotechnological research at Starfleet Academy, and again at Jupiter Station." The mention of that name triggered a flood of unwelcome association which he fought to quell.

"That's right." Carmichael nodded, smiling. "We're attempting to isolate common sequences in a broad range of viral organisms in the hope of developing universal vaccines. We think we can make it more effective by combining the engineered viruses with currently available nanotechnology, and then use the resulting hybrids to combat any future mutations. If it works," she added, squeezing her hands together to keep them from fidgeting.

Something in her eager, anxious expression amused Bashir. But he still carried clear memories of all the moments he had snatched away for research between one station-wide crisis and the next. And of his first days on the station. Everything then had seemed to give him cause for excitement and uncertainty.

"Your first field assignment, Ensign?" he asked.

Carmichael hesitated, fighting a stammer. "Yes – um – Sir. I studied mostly Science at the Academy, with a major in Xenozoology and supplemental courses in Genetics, Bioethics and Temporal Mechanics. And another in Engineering. I would have taken a position on a starship, maybe… But the facilities at Jupiter Station seemed like they might have been a bit more advanced. But my professors always told me that I'm good at what I do. I _am_ prepared for this."

"I hope so," Bashir told her. "But listen – I'm not a 'Sir'."

The girl's antennae drooped a little. "Sorry."

Bashir barely masked a sigh. "All right." He passed her a slim yellow-green data rod, loaded with encrypted data. "Take this. It might prove useful to you. There's information here that's never been published. At least, not so far."

"Thank you." Carmichael accepted it in her right hand, and studied it for a moment. Then she looked up again. "You don't believe that I'm ready?"

"I'd be far more worried if you _had_ convinced me." Bashir nodded once to the grey-eyed ensign before excusing himself from the room, with a quiet, forced smile. His thoughts were already moving forward to the meeting that he would have with Victoria and Vijay as he nodded to a Starfleet crewman who passed him in the opposite direction. It was almost like being back in uniform himself.

Deliberately exhaling, he clenched and unclenched the fingers of both hands – and hurried away with his heart suddenly pounding.

Past an intersection where the curving outer corridor veered into a much shorter, narrower passage, he turned to look behind him, but kept as close as he called to the wall. The middle aged man emerging from the side passage paused to adjust his uniform sleeves, but gave no sign that he had noticed Bashir. The man stood straight enough to display the line of slightly unkempt hair below the baldness of his scalp, and strode towards the laboratory where Ensign Carmichael was working.

"Have you made any progress?" he asked the young Andorian in a cultured, slightly nasal voice. The door closed behind him and shut out the girl's reply.

Bashir fell back against the wall, allowing his head to press against the smoothly solid surface. With his hands on his face, he breathed in deeply as a flush of heat rose beneath his skin. When he took his hands away, he noticed that they were still as tightly clenched.

_It's him_, thought Julian, accelerating to a fast-paced walk and forcing his way towards the nearest turbolift. No time to stop. There were still more preparations to be made.

_But what could that man be doing here, on this ship_?

There would be a reception in less than three hours. Crowded spaces. Cocktails and conversation – and a succession of meetings and briefing sessions that would not end once the trial of a social gathering was finally over. Thoughts rose unbidden to his mind, a stream of reasons he might give for keeping away from the reception that evening. With some effort, he rejected them all. He could not excuse himself from every potential encounter.

_Why in the world does it have to be him_?

The doors to the turbolift opened, allowing Bashir to step inside. He stared for a moment at the gleaming interior, but shook his head and scolded himself for neglecting to tell the computer where he wanted the lift to carry him.


	3. Chapter 3

**POTENTIAL:**

_**Potens**_**: "Power" (Latin). From **_**Potesse**_**, "To be able".**

"**existing in possibility**:** capable of development into actuality****."**

**(**_**Merriam Webster Online Dictionary.**_**)**

* * *

A middle aged woman in a skirt and jacket of subdued mauve fabric, and with straight blonde hair neatly gathered at the back of her head, held out her hand for Julian to shake. "Hannah Bates." She introduced herself with a narrow smile, and paused a little longer to clasp Professor Roslyn's hand as well. "Are you here for the mission briefing?"

"I believe so," said Roslyn.

"Good," the other woman responded in a clear, efficient, but not unfriendly tone. "Come inside. There's a lot to discuss."

Others had gathered around a table in the corner of the room, which was thick at its base and painted a smooth, light brown. There was seating enough for eight, with a large chair at its head and another positioned diagonally at the adjacent corner. A hefty Bolian in Command-level red had placed one hand firmly on the back of the head chair – although his unmovable bearing gave little room for anyone else to have claimed centre-stage. His lower jaw protruded slightly forward as he smiled at a smaller lieutenant with Bajoran ridges across her nose, whose blue-green undershirt suggested that she must have been either a doctor, a counselor, or a scientist.

_Scientist_, Bashir guessed from the woman's upright, focused stance. With her hands tightly pressed against the small of her back, she was quick to acknowledge the new arrivals, but still gave them no more than a quick glance. Three others stood in a row by the star-speckled windows, all in tight-fitting Starfleet uniforms. But their conversation was so hushed that it never travelled far beyond their group. Hannah Bates politely separated herself from Roslyn and Bashir. She stood beside a seat at the end of the table and tapped a stack of padds into an even pile.

The invitation, it seemed, had not extended past the senior members of the _Enceladus'_ staff, and Bates, Bashir and Roslyn – the only civilians present. It was not until the Bolian turned to look over his shoulder that Bashir saw the four small metal pips aligned along his collar. He moved his head slightly to survey the scene before him.

"We're all here then?" he confirmed in a deep, rumbling voice pushed forth by the muscles of his belly.

"Not quite." The Bajoran lieutenant looked around her. "I believe we're still waiting for one more person."

The captain shot her a quick glance that was part query and part admonition. Bashir's heartbeat intensified. He looked once at the door, and scolded himself. _You were invited_. He replayed the reminder secretly in his head. _You were invited. You _were_ invited. It doesn't matter who this other person turns out to be_. _Even if it's him, you were invited_.

"He's usually more punctual than this," Bates remarked. "I can only assume that he must be on his way."

"Are you sure?" asked the young Bajoran.

"Well, I suggest that we begin, regardless." The captain settled heavily into the most prominent chair. "Any late arrivals will have to catch up once we…"

The doors slid open.

Bashir clenched both his hands, but was relieved to find that they were by his sides and not plainly visible to every other person in the room. He had hoped that his earlier brief glance at the man in the corridor had been somehow an error. Seeing the pale face of an old acquaintance, with lips drawn slightly back as though with an expression of permanent distaste, he struggled against a sudden urge to flee into the corner and make himself invisible to all.

There were no concealing shadows to be found in the _Enceladus'_ meeting room. Even the floor had lost some measure of its comforting solidity. And the other man's eyes were just as immediately focused on Bashir.

"Ah. Doctor Zimmerman," said the captain. "How good of you to join us."

"My apologies," Lewis Zimmerman responded in his usual nasal tone. "There were some last minute problems to iron out in the latest programme. I must have lost track of time."

Bashir hoped fervently that no-one else could see how tightly controlled and forced his own acknowledging smile had become.

"Shall we begin?" At this suggestion from the captain, who slapped the front of his torso as he spoke, all but one of the gathering took their seats. The Bajoran lieutenant caught her captain's brief glance and travelled to the front of the room.

She stood by a large screen of smooth, reflective black – a familiar sight on starships and other Starfleet conference rooms – and waited for the others to settle. Bashir directed his attention forward even while he noted Zimmerman's face at the edge of his vision. _Concentrate_, he commanded himself as forcefully as he could manage without it showing on his face.

Yes, the man was part of their team. Yes, it had been his intervention – a little over a year ago – that had sent Julian's life into an unanticipated free-fall. And yes, he could do nothing to escape from the cool hostility that he was sensing from across the table.

So he would focus on the young lieutenant, their mission, and the important information that she had come there to impart.

"I'll start with what we know about the Exeter colonies," she told them with the practised fluency of a pre-arranged lecture. "Thirty years ago, a group of Human colonists set out to terraform an area of approximately two hundred hectares along the coast of one of the Southern continents. Since then, in addition to the initial settlers from Earth, there have been others arriving from the neighbouring colonies and a small number of non-Humans from other planets like Vulcan and Betazed. But the population numbers have always been relatively minimal. At least count there were never more than 2,500 people, although some have suggested developing a larger area to allow for further settlement, or perhaps establishing a second colony in the North."

"At the very least, the war with the Dominion has significantly impaired the movement of settlers and even their ability to expand their existing colonies," Bates added. "Notwithstanding the obvious human cost, without the possibility of a new population influx, the losses sustained from this recent epidemic could have a severe impact on the remaining infrastructure of the Exeter settlements."

She fell silent for a moment, quietly introspective.

"Then if that's true—" Roslyn leaned forward. "There may be no way to save the colony."

"The colony? Probably not," said Bates. "Unfortunately we haven't received any new data since the initial distress call. But from standard projections I would estimate by now that anything up to two thirds of the population could be infected."

"Our instructions were to assess the situation," said the young Bajoran. "But yes, we could be looking at a permanent evacuation here. Assuming that…"

"Assuming that the away team doesn't find a reason to declare the whole planet a quarantine zone." It was Julian Bashir's half-whispered voice that finally broke their silence.

"That's true." The Bajoran woman studied him for a moment. "I know you were there, at Mundara Village. You've seen what such an epidemic can do. You understand the possibilities."

_Better than I would have liked to_. Bashir sensed that almost every face around him – especially Doctor Zimmerman's – had turned a little harder.

"Naturally, the ideal outcome would be a promise to safeguard individual survivors," the captain assured them in a voice that conveyed very little hope of such an outcome. "The governor on Exeter Five has agreed to set aside a former meeting hall at the centre of New Zeehan for use as a research facility and temporary accommodation. However I would advise you all not to be surprised at anything you find."

_Two thirds infected_. The truth was, Bashir's own calculations had arrived at the same disheartening conclusion. The available data was scant at best – already too outdated for many standard projections to have much validity. For the first time, he found himself looking more closely at Hannah Bates. The woman appeared so ordinary to his eyes. Intelligent, certainly – but in no way particularly distinctive. Still, however she had reached her estimate, there could be no doubt that Bates was a capable mathematician.

The Bajoran Starfleet officer continued after a moment of hesitation, but little of the earlier reticence showed in the steady efficiency of her voice. "I took the liberty of bringing some original survey reports from when the planet was settled." She paused to select a datapadd from a narrow counter beside the main screen, and illuminated the surface of both with the touch of a single icon.

"As you can see, the main towns are in relatively close proximity to each other. The first colonists concluded that their weather control systems would be more effective if they settled on lower ground, and allowed the climate to feed off the surrounding hills. The terrain is flattest in this area, except for the site of the central town of New Zeehan, right… _here_. If the records housed in Stellar Cartography are correct, they ought to be approaching the Southern Summer. That means strong winds will be blowing down from higher altitudes, which tend to transplant a lot of soil and other materials from this Northeastern range."

"Are you suggesting some form of airborne carrier?" asked Roslyn. The lieutenant quickly turned towards her.

"This illness does appear to have been largely centred in the valley around New Zeehan," she said.

"The locals are mostly farmers," added Bates. "They were doing some agricultural research in the colonies too – something about the effects of artificial weather systems on crop yield."

"Which is why you suspect an environmental cause," Bashir commented, half to himself.

"Hardly a co-incidence," remarked Lewis Zimmerman in a voice that was drier than a desert wind.

The lieutenant nodded. "Exactly."

While she was not speaking, Hannah Bates' attention followed Bashir throughout the course of their briefing. He guessed that she must have been watching him from the moment that she had learnt his name. The expression in her eyes was always calm – more innocently curious than hungry or hostile – but no less added to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the meeting room. Secretly pausing for a deep inward breath, he tried to calm the threads of agitation as they brushed against the base of his spine.

He coughed dryly. "Are we…?" he began. "Are we likely to encounter any problems from the Dominion or Cardassians? Anything we ought to be aware of?"

"It isn't a Maquis planet if that's what you're asking," Zimmerman responded curtly, with a sneer that was only marginally less than a glare.

_Thank you. In case you were wondering, I can still _read_ a star chart_. Julian held back the tempting rebuttal.

Another Starfleet officer spoke up in response, glancing as he did at the gathered civilians. "We haven't seen much evidence of recent Dominion activity in the sector, but I can spare a small security contingent to accompany you to the surface. Of course you'll also have the _Enceladus_ in orbit to warn you of any trouble. We'll equip you with two subspace distress beacons in case the colony's transmitters should fail for some reason. Just be aware that we may have to leave at a moment's notice if Starfleet calls us away. You may still end up on your own down there."

* * *

Bashir quickly separated from Victoria Roslyn as soon as the meeting was over, but the professor's green eyes showed no reproach. "I need to relay this information to Vijay," she said. "I'll see you this evening."

_The reception_.

Julian stood in the now empty corridor, looking upwards at the ceiling and with both hands clenched somewhere by his hips. "All right." He kept his voice to a whisper. "All right."

He turned around and located an open panel. "Computer?" he began – but paused, uncertain of precisely what he was meaning to ask.

One face came to his mind, leading him to the place where his curiosity was strongest. "Computer, where would I find Doctor Hannah Bates?"

"Doctor Bates is on Deck Four, Section Two."

"Thank you," Bashir responded, and instantly felt a little foolish.

The door to Bates' working space was open, leaving an unhindered view of the interior. The scientist stood between two large desks and re-arranged her smooth blonde hair at the back of her head. She fastened a clip around it before she finally glanced at the corridor, and at her visitor now standing in the threshold. "Come in," she greeted him with a subdued but fully welcoming smile.

Bashir entered in one long stride. "I was wondering…" He tapped two fingers on a nearby bench-top. "If you have a moment to spare, might I be allowed to take another look at those orbital scans? You mentioned the possibility of a recent climactic change."

"Actually, it's really just a theory," said Bates. "At least for the moment. I was hoping to conduct a more thorough analysis once we have a chance to gather new data. I can transmit the ship's scans to you on the surface."

"I'd appreciate that." Bashir glanced around him at the well-stocked laboratory. "Am I to understand that you won't be beaming down with us after all, then?"

With the same mild smile, the even-tempered scientist shook her head. "No, I'm not a field specialist." Her voice barely shifted from its level, slightly high-pitched tone. "I was assigned to this mission purely in an advisory capacity."

"Why?" asked Bashir.

"Think of it like this." Bates' answer was accompanied by the same quietly wistful smile. "I've never had any difficulty in analysing raw data. I can see mathematical patterns as clearly as any other person I know. But I have no more than _adequate_ experience in dealing with those who my research is likely to affect."

"I find that hard to believe."

At this, she chuckled softly. "And I find that there is a lot to be gained from knowing where to find my own strengths. Let's just say that your Federation prefers to keep me away from the kind of work that might involve a lot of contact with other people. I thought you'd know a little about what _that's_ like."

Julian frowned.

"Sorry," added Bates at the sight of her companion's immediate reaction.

"No, I'm sorry." Realising that he had begun to stare, he forced his own thoughts quickly back into focus. "I thought – well, assumed – that you were a Federation citizen."

Bates turned a little so that her clear blue eyes locked a little more closely with Bashir's. "Not by birth, no." She lifted a padd in both of her hands, but did not activate it – almost as if she had been looking for the smooth pressure of something against her fingers. "I didn't even know that there was a 'Federation of Planets' until… It must be seven… yes, seven years ago."

"But you _are_ Human?"

"From the colony of Moab IV."

"I've heard of it," Bashir responded thoughtfully. "Moab IV… If I'm not mistaken, that planet was settled by an isolated group of Human colonists, and it took a few hundred years before the _Enterprise_ encountered your people again. They were… outside the Federation. Isolationists."

And his mind brought forth the final piece of information from a news report that he had only read once, in passing. He stared at the scientist with her calm blue eyes and remarkably ordinary straight blonde hair. "Genetically engineered isolationists," he recalled. "And now I know what those peculiar looks throughout the meeting were about today."

Bates nodded. "It's true," she said. "I grew up in a bubble, where the natural environment outside was as toxic as a Demon World, but inside, it was perfect. An obsessively cultivated paradise. The founders of our colony had laid down rules to control our lives and evolution so completely that…"

Seeming to notice herself holding the padd, she set it down upon the table. Her voice was noticeably quieter than before. "I never saw what an incredible universe there was beyond – well, our gilded cage. And when I did, I found that I could no longer bear to stay inside. I guess we should both be glad that no prohibition extends to the natural sciences."

"I understand," said Bashir. He had been lucky in some small way, having already proven that he could interact with others before they ever realised that they had any cause for doubt. Before his new placement with Victoria Roslyn and her team of researchers, he had also longed to be free from imprisonment, and the constant scrutiny of persistently watchful orderlies.

"So do I." Bates paused, eyes shifting minutely from side to side as though enacting some internal debate, and finally she looked up again. "The truth is, I knew who you were before you joined us on this ship."

It was not an unexpected admission, but no less sudden. "I'm sorry," conceded Hannah Bates. "If it makes you uncomfortable to talk about it…"

"No." Bashir discovered somewhat belatedly that he had been staring, and fiercely shook away some of the runaway thoughts inside his head. "No – it's…"

_What_? _All right_? Words caught in his throat.

"Do—?" He finally managed to force his voice once more to the surface. "Do you still have those topographical scans on file?"

"I'll bring them up on the central monitor."

"Thank you."

Thin yellow lines crossed over the black of the largest nearby computer screen. Even the reflection of silhouettes within the room vanished in the enhanced blackness of the display. Bashir noted the distance between each altitude marker, which was particularly far in the valley where the towns of Exeter Five were clustered.

_Imagine living in such a place. A planet of land, and almost all of it hostile. That valley could be affected by any one of a number of things. Unusual wind patterns, mineral deposits, even a temperature inversion on a winter morning. It's a small population – that should work to our advantage. But there's not a lot of habitable territory to escape to down there_.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Bates had stepped back to allow him a better view of the monitor, but was still looking his way.

Turning back to face her, Bashir was surprised to catch himself hesitating. He blinked once, but nodded.

"Do you… _regret_ having chosen to become a doctor?" Bates asked after another momentary pause.

_You really _have_ heard of me_. Bashir didn't recall having mentioned that particular point. But somehow he did not feel as incensed as he might previously have done. It was only natural for Hannah Bates to be curious, he told himself. They were part of the same team, after all. Or perhaps he felt less guarded around this woman because they seemed to have something in common. Because she had chosen to reveal her genetic status to him. That was no small confidence.

He could not insult her confidence by taking offence. "No," he replied with an emphatic shake of his head. "Of course I don't."

A barely perceptible smile touched the very corner of Bates' lips. "It was what you felt compelled to do," she said knowingly. "And my makers designed me to pursue a career in the sciences. Perhaps, in that respect, we aren't so different."

"Do you really think…?" Bashir stared, sensing the beat of his heart grow stronger than was comfortable. "No. I realise what you must be thinking, but no. At the end of the day, we all have the potential to choose what to do with our lives. That's what makes us who we are. It makes us Human – and I didn't choose to study medicine because of some inbuilt genetic imperative."

The schematic layout of Exeter Five was still in front of his eyes, still barely changed by those five small specks of habitation. "I know – it wasn't a matter of going to medical school for the sake of something to do," he continued. "It was… I _was_ a doctor. While that lasted, it was still a choice."

Nature or nurture, was that what she was asking him? One of the oldest questions of their species – and besides that, where could a man like himself and a woman like Hannah Bates fit into the equation? That had been his own eternal question. What was he, a constructed thing – barely certain that he could even think of himself as his parents' son? In one way, however indirectly, his DNA had indeed limited his available shoices, even as the changes made to him had seemed to bring his potential future into view.

The steady blue eyes of Hannah Bates were watching him in calm anticipation. "I was designed to be a scientist," she repeated. "You could say that my ancestors already knew the career that I would choose, decades before I knew it myself. They knew my temperament, my appearance, and every facet of my character, because they had planned it all. But for all that, they could not have known that I would choose to turn away from their perfect colony. For all that, I do still miss my home."

Bashir glanced sidelong at the fair haired scientist. "Perhaps not so different, then."


End file.
